


Forgotten.

by Yourdearestwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:43:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yourdearestwatson/pseuds/Yourdearestwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John forgot that Sherlock was his lover, and these are his journal pages.</p><p>[DAY ONE]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Have you ever felt like you’d forgotten something? I’d felt that way as I woke up in the strangest of places. This wasn’t my cot back in the war, and I wasn’t hearing guns or explosions, but instead was peace and quiet—and the faint sound of a kettle whistling. I sat up straight, feeling my eyebrows furrow as I looked around at my unfamiliar surroundings. Did I pass out and someone take me in? Where were my tags and my things. If I had a days walk ahead of me, I needed my boots. If I were in a strangers home, they might be downstairs, by the door as was the custom here in the Middle East. 

Cautiously, I went through the drawers and found that the host of the house had clothes that I had in London—oatmeal sweater and a pair of jeans. I could find my stuff later if the family is taking me in for a day or so. I hadn’t had a decent meal in a while and I could catch up in less than a day. After I put my clothes on, I went down the stairs to a cozy living area. I heard clinking in the kitchen and made sure to square my shoulders in a militant manner so I could greet my host properly. 

A good looking man no less than ten years younger than me, wild raven hair and to my surprise, pale skin to make the colour white envy. I saluted the man, who gave me an odd look.

“John, what are you dong?” It felt like a rock had plummeted into my stomach as I dropped my hand to the side. an English accent, and the male knew my name. What was this? 

“Sorry,” I apologized, he seemed to relax before I asked, “Do I know you?”

He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to me, eyes fixed like daggers into mine. “I would think so,” replied he, making the knot in my stomach tighter. “You’ve been living in my flat for some time now.” 

I stared at him, feeling my mouth drop open, “how long?”

“Long enough.”

“How. Long.”

“A few years. John, are you alright?”

No. No, I wasn’t alright. I turned on my heel, and marched back to the room where I began and slammed the door. Something was very wrong.


	2. Day Two

Getting my head around this event was larger than I expected. I had sat in my room, ignoring the man downstairs, requesting my presence with the constant bickering:

John!

John!

JOHN!

Come DOWN here, John! 

We have a client, John!

I’ve gotten us dinner, John. 

Aren’t you coming to bed, John?

 

Finally, at one point, he stopped, and there was nothing but sad violin music that met my ears. I had never heard the tune before. It was slightly(and somehow) comforting, almost bringing a tear to my eye. After an hour, it had stopped and the sound of the door shut as the man was hidden from the world. 

I was able to go down to the kitchen and get some supplies for my room and a cup of comforting tea—how else was I supposed to cope with this trauma. Going back to my room with arm fulls of perishable items that I could eat without leaving the room, I headed back in. I needed to figure out what was going on. 

I wondered who the wild-haired man was, and why he looked so hurt that I didn’t know who he was. 

I snaked on some saltines and drank my tea in thought. I had never seen that man in my life. It had been a full day and by the way that the sun was rising, it was another that I had no idea where I was, who I was living with and why it was so upsetting. 

I was clearly missing something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.


	3. Day Three

After waking up, I decided that if I were to be here as well with this man that did nothing but play his violin I should at least join him. After all, I was not a coward—I was a solider, after all. After getting dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, I headed downstairs and sat where there was a union Jack pillow. Perfect resting spot to listen to the man play beautifully. I had never gotten a front row performance, and this was certainly a treat. The man seemed to curl his mouth up in a smirk as the sad tune turned a little less melancholy and a lot more hopeful. He finished and placed his violin and bow on the stand and sat in the chair across from me. “Ready to talk, are we?” he said, folding his hands into a steeple. 

“What there to talk about?” I asked, crossing my leg over my knee to lean forward. He was soft spoken and his voice was low. 

“Us, John.”

Us? Were we an us? Alarm spent through my veins as I put my back to my chair and nodded.I swallowed. “Alright. Tell me everything. From the day I met you.”

It took the man named Sherlock less than ten minutes to sum up everything: The cases I never remembered, the time he faked his death because a man named Jim Moriarty framed him. His return and our—-relationship. I blinked at him when he had finished. I felt nothing for him. I felt scared, confused and lost. But for the man that sat before me, there was nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” I replied honestly, “but I don’t know if I feel that right now.”

There was a long pause, the silence deafening my ears. I wished that he’d say something, anything. “I don’t expect you would,” he said, getting up, calmly straightening his jacket. “I don’t know what happened, John, but I suppose we can go back to being friends if it makes you comfortable.”

I frowned, feeling that flutter in my stomach and nodded. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” I said. “I might not know you, but you obviously know me. It’s hardly fair to you.” He didn’t answer. He simply walked past me and headed towards the other bedroom and shut the door. 

Crestfallen, i was left in my chair, staring at the tea he made for me—just the way I liked it. I could see my own confused reflection and I looked even a little bit hurt. Why couldn’t I remember. I wanted to—I was trying to force myself to—but there was nothing but a blank slate as if to be painted on.


	4. Day Four

It had been a long three days and quite frankly, it was a little awkward. I appreciated that Sherlock brought me along on his cases. I didn’t find myself much help. I only found him to be fantastic and amazing. I’d never seen anything or anyone like him before. He was very extraordinary, that was for sure. I found myself standing closer to him—not because I was cold, but because I wanted to. He seemed to be comfortable with this, and by the end of the day, he had solved the mystery. I was to say the least, very impressed. We shared a cab home in silence. There needn’t a word to be said, it was there in the silence and I liked that. I felt a smile cross my face ans I turned to look at the man I’d been sharing a flat with for years (apparently.) 

How could I not know such a wonderful man? He was rude, and he was inconsiderate with the least of his most irritating traits. Most the times we had argued, but they blew over easy. He caught himself staring at the man—he was something else. Not like anyone with his exotic (—no, beautiful -) looks and a smirk that was crawling up to his cheekbones. He leaned towards me and I could smell him. The scent brought back a flash of memory of him kissing me. It surprised me that I remembered. I could feel his lips on the shell of my ear, “you were staring, John.” The voice was that of an angel. Low, seductive, enough to make your blood tingle. I swallowed and nodded.   
“Sorry,” I apologized, doing my best not to look at him, his mouth still hot by my ear and moving down towards my neck. Oh, how I wanted those lips on my neck. 

But why? I barely knew him—didn’t I? As they planted there, I didn’t seem to mind and another flash came, a series that of all the cases e had done, I remembered. I was getting out of breath with the mix of arousal and my head remembering thing. 

His much larger hand was set on my lap, sneaking up and up, to where my muscles tightened , and he moved down realizing it was too sudden for me. Was this normal for me? Did he normally touch me like this, and kiss me in the cab? I didn’t care. All I knew was that I was gaining memory each time his lips touched my flesh until we reached Baker Street and his hands were inside my shirt. 

it was hot, for a cool Spring day, that was sure. I got out of the car and had to lean against it as more memories flooded me. 

It was amazing, a miracle. As he spun me into the flat, I realized that I did love him. I realized that our relationship was important to me and as we approached our room, I was fully aware of everything, tears streaming down my face as Sherlock took me inside and we made up for the time that we’d lost.


End file.
